


Gravitation

by the_irish_mayhem



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_irish_mayhem/pseuds/the_irish_mayhem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling together is what they do best.</p><p>A series of oneshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Is your seatbelt on?"

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of my Clintasha oneshots that I've posted on tumblr and am now putting up here to make my AO3 library a complete collection of my fics.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From my 100 Ways to Say “I Love You” prompt meme.
> 
> 80\. “Is your seatbelt on?”
> 
> Mission fic.

This was not the plan.

They’d stashed that nice Escalade a half a mile away from the warehouse for a _reason_. So that it wouldn’t get blown up by the freaking bodyguard with a rocket launcher. Okay, that wasn’t the actual, specific reason they put it there, but one of the bodyguards. Has. A. Rocket launcher.

So as their ride goes up in flames from an RPG, Clint privately wonders why they always agree to get themselves out every time. “Why can’t we just _for once_ ask for an extraction plan?” he says to Natasha as their feet beat a hasty rhythm against the pavement.

“Because we’re perfectly capable of getting ourselves out,” she answers, “No need to waste resources.”

“We’re talking about wasted resources when there’s at least half an army of people coming for us on foot, and the other half of the army in a fleet of SUVs.”

“We’ll be fine,” she says, keeping her eyes focused ahead. “If worse comes to worst, we can fight our way out.”

“But don’t you think it would be nice if we could–” he’s interrupted when a mailbox fifteen feet in front of them explodes. “That guy is a _terrible_ shot,” he observes.

“Hush,” Natasha says, “you can talk as much as you want when we’re on our way out of here.”

“God yes,” he says, “and we have a whole week and a half of leave.”

Natasha grunts her acknowledgement, and the two descend into silence as they run through the streets. They move as a single unit, needing only quick hand gestures and jerks of their heads to indicate their plans.

By the time they’ve woven down more alleyways and gone through more building basements and jumped more chainlink fences than Clint cares to remember, (his heart is about to burst out of his chest. Man, he is not getting any younger, is he?) there’s only one of the henchmen following them.

“Do you want this one?” Nat asks.

“Nah, you can get him.”

And with that, Natasha switches direction, plowing straight at the guy who clearly hadn’t anticipated it, and taking him down in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

Meanwhile, Clint pops the hood on the car nearest to him. It’s a lowkey sedan, a bit scratched and dinged, but the mechanics look solid, and so he reaches into the guts of the engine.

“Tash, can you bust the steering column lock? I’m gonna jump the solenoid–”

“Or you can just check for the keys,” she answers, and he peeks around the hood to see her dangling the keys in her hand.

He slams the hood and heads around to the passenger side as the engine revs to life. When he closes the door and settles into his seat, he looks over at Natasha. “I know we lost them, but they’re definitely not far out. We need to get going.”

“Is your seatbelt on?” she asks, eyeing him expectantly.

He could just laugh. “No, honey dearest, but I can put it on if you would like.”

She rolls her eyes, but her answer is entirely serious. “Please.”

He does as she asks, and then leans over and pecks her on the cheek. “Thank you for keeping me alive.”

“God knows you don’t do that well enough yourself,” she answers as she shifts the car to drive and pulls out into the street.

“Hey, I was doing okay by myself before you came along.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, her focus diverted by the rearview mirror. “Honey dearest, hold on, because it looks like RPG guy has caught up to us.”

“Oh god, the poor buildings around us are going to be suffering–”

Nat jerks the wheel to the right, and Clint is suddenly very glad she insisted on the seatbelt or else his whole body would be in her lap. Then she floors the thing, the engine gamely responding to her demands, and thrusts Clint back into the seat and sends his stomach flat against his spine.

When she takes another corner at breakneck speed, she lets out this little giggle, and he realizes that he could not possibly love this woman more.


	2. "Can I kiss you?" "You didn't have to ask." "I noticed."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From my 100 Ways to Say “I Love You” prompt meme.
> 
> 37\. “Can I kiss you?” 68. “You didn’t have to ask.” 89. “I noticed.”
> 
> Some developing relationship pining plus patching up their partner equals smooches.

She’s limping.

She must’ve been hiding it when they went through the mission debrief with Coulson, even stayed her post-mission medical exam until tomorrow.

Clint wonders if she’d meant to let him see it. His quarters are closer to the debrief room than hers, which are a bit further down the hallway and to the right.

They’d walked back to the dormitory section of the base together, and she’d said good night to him when they got to his door. “Sleep well,” she said too.

She’d been about to turn away and he couldn’t help but tease her, “What, no good night kiss after you walked me home?”

That pulled a smile from her, a small laugh too. “In your dreams, Barton.”

“Always,” he’d said once more before letting her go.

He had opened his door, moving to step inside before pulling back, hoping to tell Romanoff to sleep well, too. (And if he’d wanted to throw back a little jab about trying not to dream about him, well, he certainly couldn’t be blamed.) But that’s when he sees it.

She’s almost leaning herself into the wall it’s so severe, and she turns the corner before he can say anything.

He follows her, letting his door close behind him. By the time he rounds the corner, she’s already in her quarters, and he bangs loudly on her door.

She pulls it open not a moment later. “Barton?” She seems surprised. “What are you doing?”

“You’re hurt, and you didn’t tell anyone,” he says.

Her lips tighten ever so slightly. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, bullshit, I saw that limp. If you of all people are limping, I know you’re not fine.”

Her eyes widen, and he can practically hear her punishing herself in her mind.

“Do you have a medkit in here?” he asks.

She nods.

“Okay, I’m coming in,” he says, not waiting for her permission and he pushes past her. It’s only then that he realizes she’s half out of her suit. It fits her like a wetsuit, and so the torso is pulled down to her waist; the only thing covering her top half is a sports bra.

Well. “Where’s the kit?” he asks instead of letting his eyes wander. She jerks her head to gesture behind him, and he sees it strewn out on the table.

He sits down at one of the chairs, and pulls the other out. “Show me your leg. What happened?”

“Got thrown into a crate. I my kneecap is definitely bruised. Broke through my suit and skin, too.” To his shock, she just keeps peeling the suit down her body, completely unashamed. She wears plain, boxer-brief like underwear, and he has to remind himself to _not_ ogle his partner.

She quickly puts on an old SHIELD tee and a pair of basketball shorts before sitting down and showing him her knee.

“Shit,” Clint breathes because “breaking through the skin” doesn’t describe what’s happening here. “This is going to need stitches. Why didn’t you go to medical?” He starts going through the kit, pulling out string and trying to locate the box of needles.

She grunts. “I know my own body. I don’t need them to tell me what I already know. I didn’t–” She shakes her head. “I just thought I’d come here to take care of it myself. I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“ _I_ noticed,” Clint says. “God, Nat, you don’t…” He takes a deep breath. “You don’t have to lone wolf it all the time. We all know you’re tough. You don’t have to prove it by not going to medical when you could legitimately use medical attention.”

“That’s not–” She hesitates, but seems to come to a decision, and takes her own deep breath before she says, “I have a thing about giving other people control over medical procedures.” She fiddles with her fingernails for a moment before she’s back to being Agent Romanoff, but Clint wants another glimpse of Natasha.

Then he goes back over her words and his hands freeze in the middle of sanitizing his hands. “Shit, Nat, I’m sorry.”

“It’s…” another steadying breath, “It’s okay. I need to learn to get over it, and if it’s going to be anyone whose hands I’m trusting, I’d rather they be yours.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Cause we don’t have any lidocaine or anything to numb it. Medical would have that.”

“Do I look like I’ve never given myself stitches without an anesthetic before?”

“Of course not, but if this is a thing for you, then… I don’t know, don’t you want to make it as easy as possible?”

Her breath catches at that, and he wonders if he’s said something wrong until he sees her eyes. “No,” she says softly. She lifts her leg up so it’s rest across his lap, giving him ample access to her injury. “I trust you.”

His breath catches a little at that one. They’re long past the days of sleeping with one eye open with each other, but he’ll never tire of hearing that. “Okay. Don’t think too hard. I’ll be in and out like a jungle cat.”

She chuckles a little at that, inhaling sharply when the needle pierces her skin for the first time. Her hand falls to his shoulder, squeezing just enough to remind him she’s uncomfortable with this. “Good?”

“Yeah.” It’s said through gritted teeth, but he knows it’s not from the pain, so he sutures quickly. He hasn’t done this for someone else in–ever. He realizes with a bit of a start he’s never done this for anyone but himself.

“What?” Natasha prompts.

“Nothing, just realizing you’re my first ever patient. Aside from yours truly.”

A pause, and her grip on his shoulder loosens ever so slightly. “You must’ve had to stitch yourself up an awful lot of times if you’re this good at it.”

He chuckles. “I suppose.”

They don’t say anything else as he works his way across her knee. The jagged cut isn’t small, by any means, but it doesn’t take too long to close up. He realizes that she’s probably right as he’s tying off the line of stitches; he’s kind of disturbingly good at this.

Her hand has loosened on his shoulder, and her thumb has begun to gently caress the skin of his neck. He tries to ignore the effect her touch is having on him as he drops the needle and leftover thread in the trash can at his feet. He uses one sanitary wipe to clean his fingers of her blood, and another to clean off her knee. “I’m just going to dress it now,” he says unnecessarily, but needing something to fill the silence. The gauze and medical tape don’t take long, and then he’s back staring into those beautiful eyes.

That damn thumb is still smoothing along the skin of his neck.

Her eyes flicker down to his lips.

The skin of her leg is so smooth under his hand, and he absentmindedly begins to move his hand in time with her thumb.

They’re leaning closer, he can feel the warmth of her breath on his face, and before he loses his nerve, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

She breathes without hesitation, “ _Yes.”_  Nat’s the one to close the gap and press her lips to his, her leg dropping to the ground so they can shift closer to one another. He doesn’t push for more, allowing her to lead where she wants to go, give what she wants. It’s not long before she’s the one pushing for more, and he responds enthusiastically. Their tongues run along teeth and lips and Clint remembers how much he loves the feeling of being thoroughly kissed by a woman who knows what she wants.

When they pull back, they rest their foreheads against one another. “You didn’t have to ask, you know,” she breathes against his lips, “But thank you. Not many people ask.”

Oh, this woman. “I’d like to do it again, if that’s all right with you.”

“More than,” she answers back.

Kissing Natasha is like a homecoming, a long-awaited arrival that seems like an inevitable conclusion now that he’s here. As his lips move over hers, and his hand tangles in her hair, he breathes her in and remembers every mission, every moment that carefully built them up to where they are now.

Trust. Camaraderie. Something much, much more.

“How’s that for a good night kiss?” Natasha asks when they finally pull back.

And Clint is grateful.


	3. Hugs From Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the Cuddles/Hugs prompt meme. 
> 
> 17\. Hugs from behind.
> 
> Post mission angst.

He’d never dare put his arms around her like this unless they were home, away from the intensity of SHIELD and their work. She’d probably have him flat on his back in seconds, probably with something dislocated or broken.

But here, in Stark Tower, which they both can comfortably call home, they both let their guard down. It was easy- it was the most secure building in the world aside from the Sandbox. Well, easy was a bit of an overstatement. For the first year, they’d never moved in, never put their belongings anywhere but their go-bags. Now, though, things had migrated to shelves and closets and there were pictures of them (like a normal couple) and there were pictures of them with the team. It was a huge step for the both of them, as they’d never done “proper” domestic.

Their domestic was cleaning and stitching wounds; taking alternating sleeping shifts, and sometimes staying up the whole night because they knew their partner needed sleep; debating the different advantages and disadvantages of new types of weaponry; pulling pranks on Nick Fury because no one else had the balls to (except for Phil, but he’d been gone for some time now.)

They had their own brand of domestic, so moving into the Tower and had “proper” domestic like making breakfast and eating together, sitting down with forks and plates and a table was very new.

With the new domestic came things he knew he’d never get to do otherwise- tease her about laundry, wake up together, not on edge or to the terror and uncertainty of another day as assassins (though that still came often), and hugging her from behind.

This particular hug came after a fight.

With their new brand of domestic came arguments, which they’d never really had before, not when there was so much space for them to run away from each other. They were almost always underfoot with each other now, and that naturally led to some fights.

Natasha wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever been with. She didn’t worry about your average concerns (“Are you sure you love me?” “Are you committed to us?” “There’s no one else, is there?” No, Natasha was not that kind of insecure.) Instead, Natasha and he argued about missions, about taking insane risks, and everything else that came along with their upped-awareness of their own mortality around a band of superheroes.

This one had started just after the mission, when Natasha quietly said, “You used up your last arrow for me.”

He had. He didn’t regret the call, and he (just barely, but he won’t admit that) made it out fine. It didn’t matter that his position was crawling with the droids, and he could have used that arrow to grapple or blow his way out. No, Natasha had been pinned, and she had to leave her back unprotected. He didn’t regret taking out the droid that was going for the kill shot.

“I did.” He wouldn’t deny it. He was smarter than that.

They got through the quinjet ride back to the Helicarrier to complete their briefing, and to the entrance of Stark Tower without incident. They were professionals, and wouldn’t let their personal lives bleed into their work like that.

But as soon as they’d entered the sanctity of the Tower’s shared living space, the rest of the Avengers trailing behind them, Natasha exploded. They went at each other like crazed animals, their shouts echoing off the walls and windows, and their teammates left them to it, knowing their patterns by now.

It had ended only an hour ago, when they were both spent, throats sore from shouting and emotions hurting from the things they’d said. Nat retreated to their floor, and Clint stayed in the kitchen, nursing a glass of a really good single-malt whiskey.

“Answers to your sorrows are not oft found at the bottle of a bottle of mead, my friend,” Thor had said, padding into the kitchen, probably in search of Poptarts.

“Noted,” he’d answered, not curt or annoyed with Thor, just tired. “Isn’t Jane here? She’ll be wondering where you are.”

Thor’s ability to smile after all the shit that had come his way never ceased to amaze Clint. “Aye, she is. And I think your own partner worries for you. You should ease her distress.”

If only it were that easy. “I’ll do my best, big guy, but it doesn’t help much when I am the reason she’s so pissed.” He had downed the rest of the whiskey, tolerating the burn with a straight face.

“Your relationship with the Lady Natasha is unlike any I’ve seen in my years,” Thor had said, “in that both your hopes and fears are shared with the other so completely and utterly.” It wasn’t advice, just an observation from someone who was always more perceptive than anyone gave him credit for.

Clint smiled tightly then, and went to find Natasha.

She was facing out the large window in their bedroom, stripped out of her suit and had obviously showered and prepared for bed, but hadn’t yet turned down the bedcovers.  _Waiting for him._ It scared him how much she knew him.

He approached her slowly, making small, deliberate noises to give himself away. He carefully placed his arms around her waist, tightening slowly and pulling her shower-warm skin against his cold, battle-dirtied front. She didn’t tense up when he did this anymore, and that alone made him feel like he could easily fly over the moon.

“You were an idiot,” she said quietly, voice roughened from their screaming.

“Yeah, I was. But let’s be honest, it’s not the strangest thing that’s happened,” he responded wryly.

He saw her reflection in the window smile reluctantly. “You shouldn’t have used that arrow for me.”

“Yes, I should have. I’d do it again.”

“Next time it could get you killed.”

He didn’t have an immediate response for that. A few moments later, he said, “You would have done the same for me.”

She was quiet a few moments before responding, “Yes. I would have.”

“I can’t promise I won’t do it again.”

“Neither can I.”

They didn’t say anything further, and after Hawkeye showered, he crawled back into bed where she was waiting for him.

They fell asleep tangled together, with the one person who had the capacity to throw them effortlessly to their lowest, but also lift them to their highest.

They went to bed each night praying for the latter.


	4. Post Sex Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the Cuddles/Hugs prompt meme.
> 
> 6\. Post Sex
> 
> Short and sweet.

Natasha was never big on closeness after sex. She never wanted or needed to be- the only people she slept with were marks. Now she and Clint have this _thing_ , this strange, nebulous thing she has never had before, and she doesn’t know how to manage it.

He didn’t try to force it on her after their first time, and he let her stew and come to terms with her emotions on her own because he knows her and he knows that is what she’s like.

They slept in the same bed, something they’d done before but never in this context. When Natasha awoke first that morning, she found them wrapped around each other, legs tangled and arms wound tightly around the man next to her.

She bolted, feeling guilty but she knew Clint wouldn’t hold it against her.

Enough time passes, and Natasha finds her peace with Clint.

This time, after they’re both sated and sweaty and breathing hard, before she realizes she’s doing it, Natasha curls into his side. She’s recognized her actions by now, and they become slow, measured and experimenting. She rests her head on his shoulder, places her arm across his chest, and tucks one leg around his.

Clint is still, and she can barely feel his chest moving as he breathes. He’s waiting with bated breath for her to run, she realizes suddenly; he’s waiting for her to decide she doesn’t like the closeness, doesn’t like the quiet intimacy of the moment. Months ago, she would have taken the sentiment, run with it, and loved him for it. Now, though, she just wants him to want this as she does.

She doesn’t know if she’s doing this right (as in most things dealing with this relationship) and she needs Clint’s assurance that this is okay.

She looks up wordlessly, and sees him staring down at her with those eyes and that warmth that she sees every time and that used to make her want to get away.

Now though, she as she lies under it for a while, eyes open and meeting his, she decides she likes it.

Then he moves, his arm moving around her shoulders to pull her closer and turning onto his side to look her in the eye.

They don’t need words. They never have.

_This good?_

_Yeah._

 


	5. First Hug/Last Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the Cuddles/Hugs meme.
> 
> An evil person requested 18. First/Last
> 
> Nice at the beginning, but then prepare yourself for incoming angst. Major character death. Next chapter is better, I promise.

Their first hug is unexpected. They’ve been partners for just shy of a year, and this is their first run without an extraction plan.

There’s a near miss with a grenade, and he almost gets blown to pieces. It wasn’t because he was trying to be a hero- just wrong place, wrong time, one of those necessary risks of the job.

They take down the rest of the crew who had been after them, and as the gunfire quiets, and the quiet moments after the battle have come upon them, he turns to the Black Widow. She’s panting beside him, her intense gaze locked on him, something panicked and unguarded about her.

Between one moment and the next, she’s yanked him into an rough embrace. He doesn’t know what she’s doing for a moment, is so caught off guard by it he almost pushes her away. But he doesn’t, and he returns it.

She has never shown much in way of physical affection, so this is a leap, and he isn’t going to waste it. He knows she’s damaged, he’s damaged, and this is just one more step through their version of healing.

The hug doesn’t feel like warmth, it feels like reassurance. They are each other’s tether to the here and now.

It is over quickly, and she pulls back, her mask back into place. “You good?”

“I’m a little dinged up from the grenade, but yeah, I’m good. You?”

“Good.”

Their last isn’t the way it should have been. It never is- they’re assassins, not civilians, and they both knew that this would probably end sooner rather than later.

After 14 years of partnership, 9 years of being a hell of a lot more than that, he loses her.

It’s selfish of him, but he’d always hoped he’d go first. He didn’t want to have to make the choice to go on living without her.

‘Dangerous codependent tendencies’ SHIELD shrinks cited constantly in their psych evals. They both knew it was true, and they weren’t ashamed of it. They both saw the blood on the other’s hands, and accepted each other anyway. Their personal healing was contingent upon the other’s, and their lives in every sense of the word rotated around each other.

The last time he touched her had been that morning. Soft and teasing, intimate and knowing. He knew that woman better than he knew himself. They’d laughed for the last time that morning- over something stupid probably, and Clint won’t ever get the chance to make her laugh again over something that wasn’t the amount of dirty laundry they had. He feels so cheated that he thinks he’s going to be sick again.

He remembers desperately calling for her over the comms, because she was pinned down by enemy fire and he couldn’t help her. He called to his teammates, because the most monumental thing he’d ever done was trust them with her life. But they couldn’t get to her either. Cap was pinned similarly half a mile away, the Hulk was dealing with their biggest, and decidedly most dangerous adversary, and that was only possible with Thor’s help, and Tony was critically injured and trapped in a badly damaged suit so he’d been airlifted out of the battle and back to the Helicarrier.

She was alone.

He heard her get hit.

Heard her tell him she was down.

He doesn’t remember a lot after that, but he knows he went after her, abandoned his post exactly like she would never ever want him to and he went after her with a vengeance.

He’s only vaguely aware of picking her up off the ground, calling her name, hoping against hope that she would hear him. Hoping against hope that she would stir and tease him for being so worried about her. I can take care of myself, you don’t have to mother hen over me.

He’s brought out of his numbness by Cap touching his shoulder and almost getting his hand sliced off for his trouble. Clint doesn’t apologize (Steve wasn’t expecting him to).

She’s in his arms, her body broken and bloodied, and he knows she won’t hear him. He pulls her closer to him still, breathing in the scent of her hair as her buries his face in it. He brokenly whispers her name one more time, in grief and denial and dread, and for the first time in a very long time, Clint weeps.


	6. “I dreamt about you last night.” “You can have half.” “It’s not heavy.  I’m stronger than I look.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the 100 Ways to Say "I Love You" prompt meme.
> 
> 7\. “I dreamt about you last night.” 11. “You can have half.” 22. “It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.”
> 
> Post-New York healing and hurt/comfort.

They need to decompress after New York. 

It’s always been the way of their partnership (and later, their relationship) to pick each other up. Where one falls, the other grabs them and drags them along. If they falter, the other stays strong to compensate. They’re like a well-oiled machine in that way, overcoming traumas and scars of the past while the other held them. It’s never routine, or easy. This is on track to remain consistent.

Fury has a cabin in the Virginia Appalachians that he lends her, and tells her when he hands over the keys, “Get him back on his feet, okay?” She nods, because of course she will– “Don’t forget to get yourself back on your feet, too.”

It’s unexpected, but she nods again anyways. It’s not her she’s worried about.

The car ride there is basically normal. They tease gently and trade lighthearted memories, Clint jokingly plays the Alphabet Game with her all the way through Maryland. Soon though, they’re far enough from civilization that signage is rare.

When they arrive, they both fall silent. She looks over at Clint, who has lost the teasing, lighthearted look on his face.

He finally says, “I hope we don’t get called in for a while.”

They take their duffle bags inside, and Natasha’s about to set about opening blinds and making the place fit to live in, Clint says, “Injury report?”

She smiles, a soft, small thing. It’s their routine to check each other, especially because both of them are shit at taking themselves to the doctor.

“Sprained right ankle,” she answers, shivering as she remembers how close it was to being crushed by the Hulk’s wrath, “superficial cuts and bruises. Lucky me.” She straightens, nodding at him. “Injury report.”

“Superficial stuff,” he says, and then reluctantly adds, “Tore the shit out of my ACL.”

That startles her. “Wait, what? How the hell are you walking?”

He shrugs. “Busting through a New York skyscraper window and landing awkwardly wasn’t my most graceful move.” He taps his knee, and Natasha hears a metallic return. “They gave me this, some wild meds, and a couple of healing stimulants. Medical science, man.”

“You’re going to take it easy,” Natasha insists.

He snickers. “I knew you’d make me.” He makes a move to grab their bags, presumably to take them upstairs to their bedroom, but Nat darts quickly to snag them before he can.

“Tash, you should let me take those,” he says.

“Okay, Mr. Tore The Shit Out of My ACL, I know they gave you some sort of mega-brace and enough drugs to knock out a bull elephant, but I’m taking it. Besides, it’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.” She even sends a salacious little wink his way.

He smiles at that. “Yeah, I know.”

“You can do the drapes,” she tells him. If she slowly walks up the stairs so that she can keep an eye on him as he does so, she’ll never admit it.

* * *

“I dreamt about you last night,” Clint says softly. Her feet are pressed between his calves, her nose a hairsbreadth from his, the warmth shared between them not quite too much yet.

That worries her, and she starts trying to remember if he’d had any signs of nightmares last night. “Yeah?” she asks, trying to keep her tone neutral. There was no physical symptoms of a nightmare, he hadn’t been sweaty or moving. He’d slept sounder than she’s seen him sleep in a while, for God’s sake.

“Yeah, I had this odd dream that I felt guilty because I was falling asleep when my girlfriend clearly wasn’t.”

Her brow furrows. “Clint, that’s… I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

He gives her a bit of a bitch face, and reaches up to smooth out her forehead. “Look, I… I know I have stuff to talk about. But we both have things that happened to us. I can’t have you worrying yourself half to death over me when I’m doing the same over you.”

A sharp exhale, an approximation of a laugh, escapes her. “We’ve always been a bit of a mess.”

“Not at the beginning. You hated me, then.”

“No,” she tells him. “No, I didn’t.”

“No?”

“You were the one who gave me my second chance,” she whispers. “That was back before I could even… even _comprehend_ the idea of that.”

 _But you taught me how,_ she doesn’t say.

 _And I almost lost you,_ she doesn’t say.

Clint seems to understand that, though. He gently rubs her nose with his. “We’re still here though.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

The next night he does have a nightmare. Clint doesn’t thrash when he has nightmares, he twitches and makes these whimpering sounds that drive straight into Natasha’s heart like knives. He’s kicked all the blankets onto her side of the bed, and even though the sweat is starting to bead on his forehead and in the dip of his collarbones, his skin is icy.

She knows this drill. They came up with it together and have done it for each other countless times.

She throws the blankets back across his body (enough to slow them down if they try to lash out). She starts by calling out his name, increasing in volume each time. Around the seventh Clint, his twitches look less like he’s in a nightmare, but rather he’s beginning to wake up.

“Hey, Hawkeye, come back to me,” she says, moving to the next part of the drill, “We’re in Fury’s cabin. Our last mission was the battle of New York. We’re safe. It’s me, okay, come back.”

His eyes flutter open and his body shudders. “Tasha?” he murmurs, so similar to when she brought him out from Loki’s control it makes her heart ache. His hands spasm over the covers before clenching tightly. She notices that he’s trembling.

“Touch or no?” she asks.

He shakes his head.

“Water?” 

He nods.

“I’m going to go downstairs to get it, okay? I’ll be back soon.” She waits for his acknowledgement before she slides out of bed and goes down the stairs.

When she returns, he’s sitting up. His body isn’t shaking anymore, and his eyes are focused. He barely takes two sips before he stops. She gives him a look and prompts softly, “Hey, you can have half.”

“I don’t… I don’t know if I can keep it down.”

“Just don’t chug it. You’re dehydrated, so you’re not putting that glass down until half of it is gone.”

His smile is real when he answers, “Okay, bossy.” He takes a few larger pulls. “Touch is okay now,” he says quietly, and she slides back into bed and curls her arms around him before pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“You’re going to have to talk about it at some point,” Natasha prompts.

“I know. It’s kind of… it’s hard to describe, I guess. It was like… something got twisted in me to the point that I agreed with him, you know? Like I _wanted_ to do all that shit. But then you knocked it out of me, and I was back to being me.” His smile is a bit twisted, and doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know I can move past this. I’ve killed people since I was eighteen. But it wasn’t… I never wanted to do it the way he made me want to do it.”

Natasha stays quiet, knowing that nothing she can say will make this better. She just tries to hold him a bit tighter.


End file.
